Grissom snatched the book away from her, shoving the drawing under her nose instead. In a forceful whisper he asked, "Is this your work?" Her caged animal eyes told him what her lips struggled to deny with words that caught in her silenced throat.
"You know who he is, don't you? Don't you?" he accused as he recognized her fear. His own fear.
She nodded once, still unable to speak.
"When did you see him?" Grissom hissed. "Where?"
She stared at him helplessly. Wide-eyed. Petrified.
Sudden suspicion narrowed his eyes. "Did Crawford put you up to this?"
Her eyes betrayed confusion, but she found her voice. "Crawford? Jack Crawford? Of the FBI?"
"Yes, dammit!"
Curiosity calmed her fear. "Didn't he die of a heart attack a few years ago?"
"So you knew him?" No one had had the courtesy to inform him when Crawford died, but he buried that irritation under the immediacy of the current situation.
"I knew of him. A little bit. Not much." She cocked her head, studying him. "You're Wil Graham, aren't you? Not Gil Grissom. Well, perhaps now you are..."
"Nevermind about me! If he's here in Vegas..." Grissom broke off with a mix of fear and old anger. Long before Dr. Lecter could escape maximum security custody as he had anticipated, Wil Graham had switched careers and names and moved to crass Las Vegas as the least likely place to run across the haut-coûture cannibal he'd put away. Too much pain and helplessness, too much of a personal cost to chase him again. To get inside that dark mind to figure out how to catch him. To risk being trapped inside that mind and becoming such a monster. No crimes in Las Vegas ever came close to that terrible darkness, and so he had felt safe and happy enough for years. Now he had the possibility of being a father again, having a family again, he was terrified that it might all be taken from him. He wasn't sure he could survive such a thing at his age.
Grissom's face purpled. "Where is he?"